The Orchard.
A rose-white foam of blossoms
'Neath the pink flush of dawn;
A frost of silken petals
On the dark, shadowed lawn.
A thrush's clear notes thrilling
Through the soft, silver light,
And tender fragrance scattered
From the swift wings of night …
This is my dream, beloved,
And the place I would be—
A foam of flowers above us,
In the dawn, dear, with thee.

—Jean H. Mather.

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